


Four Years Ago: The Descent of Ward Meachum

by TheHonorableJudgeNovak



Series: The Messy Chronicles of Ward Meachum's Crappy Life Thus Far [3]
Category: Iron Fist (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol, Angst, Chemical Weapons, Cognitive Dissonance, Current Events, Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Graphic Description, Guilt, Mass Death, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHonorableJudgeNovak/pseuds/TheHonorableJudgeNovak
Summary: Ward is twenty-five when he starts going mad. By the time he's twenty-six, he finds an alternative to insanity at the bottom of a little orange bottle.A look into how Ward has become the man we were introduced to in Iron Fist.





	1. March (Ira)

**Author's Note:**

> ...mind the tags.

New York City has been attacked by aliens. That eccentric billionaire Tony Stark, with a meteoric superhero rise, has had an equally meteoric fall. Gods from outer space and super-humans walk the earth disguised as normal people. Months after the attack, and still there are rumblings everywhere about a world gone mad.

 

Ward is going mad, too.

 

The time it takes from his office to his dad's penthouse, including traffic and the multiple elevator rides, is roughly forty minutes. Ward's anger doesn't dissipate in the slightest. He feels it growing, actually. He thinks he can feel his fingers and eyes vibrating with how angry he is.

 

He bursts into the penthouse, ready to confront the man who is driving his madness. His eyes scan the open layout, searching for him. There. Sitting oh-so leisurely at his computer, probably plotting how to kill another few dozen people.

 

"Oh Ward, what brings you to the neighborhood?"

 

The man's casual tone only heightens the fury in Ward's chest.

 

"Did you know?" he asks, struggling to keep his temper in check.

 

"Know what?" his dad asks in return.

 

Ward slaps a copy of the New York Bulletin on his dad's desk. There are a couple of stories, but only one pertains to them. The objective descriptions and narration are enough to leave a sour taste in his mouth, even without the images in his head. Twenty-something people dead, and the count could be as high as forty. Bodies are still being found.

 

His dad scans the front page and raises an eyebrow. "You're right, such a gross violation of human rights."

 

Ward is initially shocked that Dad has a conscience to guide him on the topic. Perhaps he had underestimated the man. He tries to settle his temper. "Tell me Rand had nothing to do with this," he says between gritted teeth.

 

Dad folds the newspaper and hands it back to Ward. "Of course not." A weight falls from his shoulders and Ward sighs in relief. Maybe he had overreacted. Maybe it was just a coincidence, and maybe Ward shouldn't be so quick to accuse his dad of the worst. Dad continues, "What would Rand have to do with a ban on assault rifles?"

 

At that, Ward flings the newspaper away and grabs Harold by the upper arms. "The gas attack!" he roars, clutching onto his dad. He needs reassurance. He needs to be told that everything is okay, that Ward had in _no way_ contributed to these deaths.

 

"Oh, that," his dad says, yanking himself out of Ward's grip. He rubs one shoulder and glares at Ward. "If it'll make you feel better, the company we worked with was completely legitimate. At the time."

 

Ward feels all the strength drain out of him. "So...we did have a part in this," he says aloud, the horror of it creeping into his gravelly voice. In his mind, he can see the descriptions on the front page: women, men and children alike, victims of the war around them. A small death toll, but one that should not exist at all. One that was inadvertently caused by Rand Enterprises.

 

"Son, you need to stop beating yourself up about this." Dad guides him over to the couch because Ward is too dazed to stand his ground.

 

He can't believe it. He had suspected, but he didn't want to believe. Rand is a good company, and Ward is a…well, he's not a bad person. Right?

 

"We can't control how people use technology, son. We just ferry it around."

 

That argument is weak, and Ward knows that his dad knows it. "So _we_ transported it. That's why we contributed all that money to so-called infrastructure, just so you could make it easier to peddle that stuff?" He feels as if the gas is attacking him too. He's having trouble breathing. His fingers and toes are tingling, and he's not sure if he has sensation in them at all.

 

He's going mad.

 

He can still see the rough video footage that inexplicably appeared in his email with that accusatory subject line. He can see the bodies, the victims trying to breathe, suffocating with paralyzed muscles, rescuers unknowingly inhaling the poison, children lying in the streets…there's no blood or cuts, but Ward has always been queasy, and in his mind's eye, he can't stop seeing people slowly dying, breath by breath, running out of life. He is in fearful awe at the mind of a man- his dad! -who has already experienced death and is alive to talk about it; does he still know the value of a life? Or are human lives just worth as much as a government is willing to pay to exterminate them?

 

"The Agri-Lyze deal. That was it, huh?" Ward clenches his fist. Apparently his muscles work after all.

 

"Oh yeah, I guess it was. I told you we were moving fertilizer, right?"

 

Ward nods mutely. At the time, he thought it was odd. He argued with his dad a fair amount but went along with it anyway, because that's just what he's done for the past decade. He knew something was strange. He should have done something. "I facilitated that deal," he says, the words choking him on the way up.

 

Harold waves a hand flippantly, as if doing so could dismiss the guilt and culpability lying on Ward's shoulders.

 

"So what? It's over with, done. Just concentrate on next month's pharmaceutical trials, hm? We're just sitting on money if we don't get those pills approved and onto the market."

 

Ward doesn't want to concentrate on anything but his dad's stupid face. "How much did you know?" he asks, because his dad is avoiding the topic, and he thinks he knows why.

 

Faced again with the question, Harold lowers himself to sit on the coffee table so their knees are touching. He takes Ward's hand into his own and looks into his son's eyes. "I knew as well as you did," his dad says in a steely voice.

 

"I didn't know _any_ thing!" Ward bellows, not caring at all that the man is sitting only a foot away from him.

 

His dad rises. "Oh, come on! Don't play that game with me, Ward. I know you! You knew there was something sketchy about the manufacturing plants, about the fertilizer deals, the trade routes, the buyer. You knew more than you claim to, but that doesn't get your little conscience clean, does it? So you have to blame it on someone else. For Rand's sake, I hope your sister is growing more of a backbone than you are."

 

The anger that has been boiling inside his chest finally grows too great. Ward launches himself at the man, his hands latched around Harold's throat. They crash into the hard floor, Harold's head knocking against the wood. Maybe he would like to know how it feels to suffocate to death? As the rage-induced thought circles his brain, Ward realizes how wrong it sounds. As the horror of his own violence reaches his brain, his hands slacken and he loses his grip on the man's thick neck.

 

His hesitation stops him from doing the unthinkable, but it allows Harold time to get his bearings. From long experience, Ward knows the man does not take well to defiance. He is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had internet, but I've been itching to post this ever since I completed the first chapter. I started writing this in part due to dmcreif's comment in another work. I could have made this all a one-shot as that commenter suggested, but I think this works better if it's a little chopped up. Updates should be quick since I have most of it completed. However, I don't have reliable access to internet and I'm actually using a phone to give me a hotspot because getting comments and kudos from people is my opiate. I hope you've enjoyed!


	2. Three Days Later (Tristitia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for somewhat graphic description of violence

He's sore and aching, he's had an unrelenting three-day headache, and there's a burning pain running down his back to his left leg. He's told his doctor all this, and they've gone through the details of his back pain: when it started, how severe it was- Ward said 5/10 because he's not a wimp, but thinks he maybe should've given the honest 8/10 -how it was a constant, sharp, burning, pain that stopped him from sleeping or sitting or standing and wouldn't go away after max doses of Aleeve. When his doctor finally asks why he waited three days after the attack to see a doctor, Ward has no answers. Maybe because his head was knocked around too much for him to invent a credible story? Maybe because he took too long recovering on Harold's couch, and it would be weird to show up to the ER a day after a supposed mugging instead of immediately? Maybe because he thought he was strong enough to get through it without help? Probably a combination.

 

"I don't know. I was pretty dazed. Like I _said_ , I don't remember much."

 

"What _do_ you remember of the assault? It'll help to identify what we should look into and which imaging studies to do."

 

Ward isn't sure how much detail the doctor needs. He figures he should be as honest as possible, but some of the details are obscured by his spotty memory and the rest need obscuring because the injuries were courtesy of his supposedly dead father.

 

"I was walking, and it was late. Can't remember how it started, but at some point this guy just grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed my head against the ground. A few times." Ward rubs the back of his head, feeling the knot under his hair. He remembers the shock of it, discovering his dad standing above him as his brain throbbed against his skull. He'd been stunned and confused.  

 

"Then he was straddling me and punching me in the chest." Ward was able to divert a few punches with his forearms, but Harold was faster and stronger than any 41-year old man should be. Than really any human should be. 

 

Ward is 6'2" with more muscle than fat, and it's laughable that a guy like him could be beaten into submission. "I fought back," he adds almost immediately, in case the doctor thinks Ward was just taking it. "The guy was just faster than me, took me by surprise. But I fought back."

 

"Which is why I guess he got tired of going for the chest. Somehow, he rolled me over and started kicking me in the back. Just whaling on me." He remembers pain flaring in his spine and pulsating in his head. The pain made him curl into the fetal position, but that only left his back more exposed. At the time, he thought a bit of back pain was better than kicks straight to the abdomen, and it wasn't like he could think straight.

 

"I don't remember how it ended." Except he does. He remembers the man abruptly stopping, and he remembers the sound of labored breathing suffusing the silence. Even now, he can see Harold in his memory, kneeling down and carrying him over to the couch with a foreign gentleness. He can see the man brushing his loose hair out of his face and putting a tender hand on his cheek. And the last thing he remembers before losing consciousness is the sound of his father crying.

 

"That's quite an experience," the doctor says with heavy concern. "Have you already contacted the police?"

 

Ward snorts in laughter. "No, I'm alive. Didn't lose all that much cash anyway." It doesn't occur to him that he could expose Harold and end all of this. It's just not an option, because he believes his dad when he says Joy might be in danger if she ever found out.  

 

The doctor doesn't look convinced. "I was going over your social history just now, and it says you live alone? No significant others?"

 

Ward isn't sure where this line of questioning is going. "No, I don't have time to date. Too busy running a company, Doc." The stiffness in his shoulders and neck is traveling down his back and making it worse. He wishes they could stop talking and get to the treating.

 

"Alright, alright," says the doctor. "Real quick test, spell the word 'WORLD' for me."

 

"W-O-R-L-D. Do I pass?" Ward drawls.

 

"And backwards?"

 

He hesitates. "D-L-O-...No, wait." The doctor gestures for him to try again. "D-L-R-W-O," he says confidently. Then he frowns and wonders if he was going too quickly. "Was that right?"

 

"It's okay." The doctor asks him some other questions, like where they are, what season, month, and date it is. Ward does it all with aplomb until the doctor asks him to remember three items. He is sure he can do it, but five minutes later and after copying a simple drawing perfectly, he has no idea what the three items were. He is disturbed that he can't remember, but the doctor doesn't seem to be bothered by it. "Let me do a physical exam, and then we can discuss our options."

 

Sitting on the examination table, Ward does everything the doctor asks of him, even though deep breathing causes him sharp pains that arrest his chest. The man taps on his kidneys, but they don't hurt much at all. Just soreness. It's only when the doctor runs his fingers down his spine that Ward yelps in a most undignified manner.

 

"Sorry," the doctor says, sounding not in the least bit sorry. He continues the physical exam, having Ward do a series of exercises and maneuvers, most of which elicit soft swear words and frustrated growls.

 

The doctor sighs as he gestures for Ward to take a seat. "Out of curiosity, where was the assault again? Not in the financial district, I take it."

 

Ward has had enough time since the incident to fabricate a story, but it was hard to come up with something that believably puts him in a dangerous enough place. People like Ward Meachum don't usually walk around Washington Heights or East Harlem. "Can't remember where it happened, but I do know I woke up in an alley off of Union Square."

 

The doctor clucks his tongue as he logs into the computer. "What on earth were you doing there? You shouldn't be walking alone at night in areas like that."

 

Despite the doctor's inattention, Ward can hear it in the man's voice: _'This is your own fault.'_  Ward clears his throat and answers, "Visiting my sister at our old place. I thought it was a safe neighborhood."

 

The doctor shakes his head. "In a place with such heavy traffic, can't believe no one saw you."

 

"It was pretty late."

 

The doctor merely gives him a stern look. "You really need to be more careful. If that mugger had hit you in the head any harder, you could've been done for."

 

' _You really need to be more careful,'_ echoes in Ward's mind.

 

"I _know_ ," he says. He's tired. He knows he started it, and he knows what not to do in the future. He should know when to stop, when he's getting close to making Harold too mad. Ward rubs his neck to try to relieve the tension. It's just that this time, he wasn't even trying to rile up the man. He just lost control.

 

"Okay, so we'll get some stat images of the back and ribs, and CT of the head. I doubt we'll see anything with your head since it's been a while since the assault," Ward wishes the doctor would stop saying that word, _assault,_ as if he's a damsel in distress. "Also, you can catch pneumonia if you don't get some good, deep breaths, which I imagine is tough with the way you're breathing. I'm going to prescribe a pain medication that can depress your respiratory drive, but the risk of that in a young healthy guy like yourself is much less than the risk of catching pneumonia. It's a three-day prescription of oxycodone, and then I want you back in the office so we can go over your images and see how your pain is doing. You can schedule your follow-up appointment with Betty up at the front. So, get those images done and then stay with your sister so she can keep an eye on you. Here's a sheet of the things to look out for," he ends, handing Ward a flimsy piece of paper. 

 

That's it?

 

Ward struggles to stand, his hand trying to brace his back. Sometimes it feels better when he arches backwards, but he knows it would look strange if he tried walking down the street like that. "So pain meds and pictures?" Ward asks to confirm. He doesn't know why he's disappointed. Maybe it's because his brain feels scrambled, and he wonders if he'll feel this way for the rest of forever.

 

"I could send you to the emergency department, and they could give you a regional nerve block. It would help with your ribs."

 

Ward shakes his head. The last thing he wants is to go over this story again with another stranger. 

 

The doctor nods and is about to open the door when he stops to give Ward a last onceover. "If you need to talk to a counselor or a therapist about the assault, feel free to ask for a referral. An experience like that can be traumatic."

 

Ward nods stiffly, knowing there is no way in hell he would ever talk about it with anyone. It's not like he can tell the truth, and an attack by a stranger is a wholly different experience from a beatdown from Harold. He'll deal with it like he's dealt with everything else in his life. Probably alone and badly, he laughs to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word WORLD whirled Ward.


	3. That Night (Gula)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward eyes are opened to a new method of dealing with his problems. It is probably not the healthiest.

He doesn't think much of the oxycodone. He can't imagine a tiny pill can possibly do anything to help his back pain, but he is willing to try it since the naproxen is doing jack shit.

 

He considers taking the first pill when he finally gets time to himself in his office. It's been a long day filled with the doctor's visit, multiple scans, and then various board meetings to catch up on the work he neglected while he was too distracted by the pain. The members of the board were understanding at least, though a few of them thought his injuries would be enough to sideline him. Ward swiftly put an end to that line of thought by coldly undercutting Lawrence's daft satellite financing proposal and mocking Maria when she attempted to support the same daft plan. He is usually more politic, but he was tired of everyone's stupidity. It's been a long day, and it'll be even longer since he's planning on working through the night to prove he can handle the workload despite his head injury and back pain.

 

He's still trying to relax into the couch in his office when his phone starts vibrating. He swears if it's Lawrence again, he's going to dock _someone_ 's pay, but he looks at the caller ID and sees Frank N. Stein.

 

He declines the call and retrieves the paper bag he got at the pharmacy. Stapled to it are papers detailing all sorts of warnings about respiratory compromise and addiction, but Ward isn't dumb enough to get addicted to drugs. Anyway, those things only happened to hapless nobodies who probably couldn't handle their liquor either. He tucks the drug warnings under a stack of other papers and cringes when he sees the newspaper sitting on top: the New York Bulletin article about the gas attack.

 

His phone rings and again, it's Stein. He contemplates answering it, but what good could come of it? Either the man would be pissed that he's been ignoring his calls, or he'll be conciliatory as he's always been. Ward is not anywhere close to forgiving the man and figures he can rot in hell. He considers the paper bag again and pulls out the little bottle containing only nine pills.

 

When he first swallows the pill, he is initially disappointed and goes about his evening routine of microwaving a dinner for one.

 

The disappointment doesn't last long.

 

It kicks in, sluggishly at first, and then without warning, he starts feeling…content. The brightness of the world takes him by surprise. He is comfortable and he has the energy finally to do anything he wants. The pain is still there, but muted. Bearable. Even though he can feel the soreness of his back muscles and the pain in his bones, and though he remembers what caused the injuries in the first place, he can't be bothered to dwell on them. He can even look at the gas attack article sitting on his desk without feeling hopelessly culpable.

 

He feels warm. He is wrapped in a warm blanket. He feels an indescribable-

 

He is so happy he could cry, and the thought- that this drug is all it takes to bring him to this state -gives him both melancholy and relief.

 

Four hours later, he is sitting at his desk in absolute awe at the little orange bottle and the eight pills left inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should be working on my personal statement, as I have to send in applications this week. But the sooner I upload this, the sooner I can get back to reality. Personally, I have never tried opioids. I've looked it up on the internet and I remember speaking once with a heroin addict who said his first taste of prescription pain killers was electrifying and felt more like he was taking Adderall; he was hooked almost immediately. For some people, I guess that's how it is. I'm describing it that way for Ward, but for some people the addiction can creep up on you. Be safe, guys.


	4. April (Avaritia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when he thought he was out, they pull him back in.

There's a quiet, periodic buzzing. It used to bother him, but as long as he has some land purchase agreements or project proposals to peruse, he hardly notices it.

 

"Are you gonna answer that?" Joy asks, turning to him instead of asking passively like any normal human being.

 

Ward exhales slowly while he rubs his closed eyes with his fingers. She's really been driving him crazy, and he can't wait until he hires someone to be Joy's bodyguard and driver. When Joy first heard about the 'mugging' a week after it happened, she demanded that he stay at the townhouse with her. She said it was because she was too scared to live alone in a place where people were being mugged, but he could tell that she was just concerned about him. She was never good at lying to Ward. Despite her good intentions, he really can't stand living at the Gramercy place much longer. Joy is just too sharp; she notices everything and then comments on it.

 

"Ward? Your phone?"

 

Ward glances at the caller ID and turns the cell phone over in his hand. He glares at her. "What kind of Court Project lets you go home so early? Shouldn't you be busy with lawyer stuff?" he accuses her as he declines the call. "Just a telemarketer," he lies to Joy. 

 

"Bar exam results come out this week. Boss says the students during this time are historically difficult to work with and has been dismissing us early. But I'm proving to her that I can do the work anyway. Hence, working at home with you instead of cooped up in an office or library like usual. Did you block the phone number?"

 

Ever the ambitious one, Joy had taken her bar exam early so she would be ready to start working at Rand as soon as she graduated. For now though, she's working pro bono through her school for some kind of Court Project. Something to do with the homeless? Or refugees or immigrants, something good and worthier of her time than Rand. 

 

The phone starts vibrating again, and Joy gives a pointed look at his unanswered cell phone. She may be waiting for Rand, but for now, she's actually working on Ward's last nerve.

 

They sit in the room without talking to each other, the buzzing filling the silence. Her gaze doesn't leave him. " _Fine_ ," he says at last, drawing out the word. Joy smirks as he leaves the room to take the call. He answers it as he starts going into the hallway and down the stairs. He's not fond of this place and doesn't understand how Joy can live in the same townhouse their dad died in, the same townhouse that Danny and the Rands had left behind.

 

"What?" he asks abruptly. He's only been putting off this conversation for a month and some change.

 

"Ah, so I'm finally worthy of your time?" asks the voice in response. Ward clenches his teeth. He's ready to hang up when Harold says, "I've missed you."

 

Ward rolls his eyes and closes the door to the downstairs study behind him. "What a coincidence. I haven't missed you at all," he says with a smile, hoping his words cut.

 

"You really need to let go of your grudges, Ward. It's not healthy."

 

Ward feels a twinge in his back and is incredibly tempted to throw his phone into the kitchen sink and run the garbage disposal. Instead, he squeezes all his anger out on the phone and grits his teeth, saying, "Well, if that's all-"

 

"No, that's not why I called." Of course not. "Rand needs to cancel its telecommunications agreement with the US government and remove all traces of the agreement's existence."

 

Ward has to sit. That is a tall order. "What? Why? I didn't even know we had something like that with the government."

 

"Don't worry about the details, just do it. Some stuff is about to go down, and Rand cannot be implicated."

 

He wants to argue. He wants to stand his ground against the man. But really, he knows better. What evil could possibly come from canceling one agreement that seems sketchy in the first place? And does he really want to know what Harold is up to? It would just cause more headaches.

 

"I'll get to work on it."

 

"Good. Make sure it's done before June at the latest."

 

Ward is flabbergasted. "You want me to dissolve our telecom contracts with every aspect of the government in one month?"

 

"Not every aspect. Just the Security Agency. Most importantly, you need to get rid of any trace of ever having such agreements. Please, son. You're the only one who can do this."

 

He tries to dampen the part of himself that preens at the comment. "Fine. I'll handle it."

 

"Good man. Always knew I could count on you." The line goes dead.

 

What is he getting himself into? Why is he falling so easily into old habits? His feet take him to the old guestroom suite and have him standing in front of the medicine cabinet. There's no point in fighting. He takes his nightly muscle relaxer a little early and pours himself a couple fingers of whiskey before wandering back to the lounge, where Joy is occupied with her laptop. He drops himself heavily into the seat beside her and lets out a long sigh. He can already feel the drug's effects, but it's not quite the same as when he took oxycodone. He still gets the energy and the warmth and the comfort, but it's not as intense as he'd like it.

 

"I don't think you're supposed to drink when you take your muscle relaxer," she says without looking at him, typing away.

 

Ward takes a sip of his drink anyway. "How do you know I took anything?"

 

At this, Joy turns and levels a concerned stare at him. "Trust me, I can tell."

 

She is too sharp for her own good. Ward quickly changes the subject. "You know I've got a couple interviews lined up for your driver slash bodyguard. So I'll be moving back to my apartment by the end of the month."

 

"What?" Joy exclaims, abandoning her laptop completely. She freezes him with the same patronizing frown he so often saw on Harold's face. "You're not ready to be living on your own yet."

 

"I was fine before, I'll be fine now."

 

"But-"

 

"Joy, _Joy_ ," he says, cutting her off. "I need to get back to my life. I can't bring the ladies home to a house I share with my _sister_."

 

That startles a chuckle and a smile out of her, but it's not enough. After a beat, she confesses, "I'm worried about you."

 

He wasn't planning on telling her this since Joy was always the pacifist, but figures maybe this is the only thing he can say to convince her to let him be. "If it'll make you feel better, I'm getting my license to carry so I can purchase a handgun. It'll probably just stay in the car or apartment, but I'll keep it on my person if I feel the situation warrants it. I won't be caught off guard like I was."

 

At that, Joy actually looks relieved. He really hadn't pegged her as pro-gun, but he supposes her fear for his life trumps any other philosophical arguments against firearms.

 

"Okay," she says, more to herself than to Ward. "Okay. But for my peace of mind, don't move out until at least we're sure there's nothing left of your concussion?"

 

Ward thought he was the one taking care of Joy, but as happens much too often, she is the one looking after him. "I'll stay until graduation," he tells her, figuring this is as good a compromise as they'll be able to make.

 

Joy nods reluctantly and places her hand on his to give it a squeeze. "I'm really glad you're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will come out quickly after this one. I felt it better to separate them, but they kind of go together.


	5. May (Luxuria)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward has something for Harold.

This is his first time visiting the penthouse since the incident. Ward doesn't know how to feel and so decides not to feel anything. He walks down the hall as he always did and goes through the security features. He's not sure why he's so caught off guard when the handprint scanner works and allows him in. He strides into the penthouse, his bravado sustained only by the weight of the holster against his left side.

 

There's the man, sitting on a lone chair facing Central Park. He takes a moment to realize he has company.

 

"Ward?" Harold actually looks a little shocked to see him once he turns around. "What a pleasant surprise." He has a stiff smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

 

Ward is glad that he can still occasionally startle the man. 

 

As he walks deeper into the cave-like dwelling, he feels less and less sure that he's done the smart thing by coming back to this place. Even the weight at his side is starting to feel like so much air.

 

"What brings you here when you should be out celebrating?"

 

"It's late. We're all celebrated out."

 

"Joy's not into the party scene, is she?" Harold asks in a way that confirms Ward's theory that the man has no idea what his daughter is like. That at least makes him feel better. The more distance between this man and Joy, the better.

 

Ward shakes his head. "No, she's only interested in joining Rand."

 

Harold smiles, all of his wrinkles crinkling into a genuine picture of happiness. "That's my girl."

 

Ward has second thoughts about what he's about to do.

 

"Sit, sit. Tell me what graduation was like."

 

Ward declines the offer by standing rigid right where he is. "You didn't have cameras on the event? You couldn't access the livestream? I thought you would have been all over it," he says, relishing Harold's unhappiness.

 

Harold looks pained and slowly moves to sit on the couch. "The Hand's control on me is too tight. You've no idea how _badly_ I wanted to watch her walk across that stage."

 

Ward has never really understood what 'The Hand' was and stopped trying to understand it years ago. On some level, he resents that the Hand has given _him_ , and not Joy, access to Harold. He wishes he could have her ignorance, but at the same time does not, and cannot, wish this upon her.

 

He approaches the man. He stands before Harold, and he's sure they make quite a picture. The lighting is dim, with Harold hunched over the couch looking up, so forlorn and so pitiful, at his dark-haired son looming above him.

 

Ward pulls open the left side of his suit while he reaches inside with his right hand, his fingers brushing the grip of his new 9mm Kimber Pro.

 

"You have something for me?"

 

Ward clears his throat and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. The pistol isn't why he's here. "Yeah, yeah." Then he latches onto the reason he's come here in the first place. He pulls out an envelope from the inner pocket and hands it to the man. It's thin and light, and Ward has trouble letting go of the thing. 

 

Harold raises an eyebrow at the envelope, but then his breathing halts when he sees the familiar cursive so clearly stating, 'Dad.' He looks back up at his son, and Ward treasures the look of utter astonishment on the man's usually imperturbable face.

 

"Joy and I visited your grave today," Ward starts explaining while his dad plunges into the letter. "She left this there. She had another one for Mom, but I left that one alone."

 

Dad's eyes mist up as they furiously study the words on the page. It's only one page, but judging by his dad's emotional response, it contains enough. He had thought about reading it, but it seemed like an invasion of her privacy. Once settled at the townhouse, he had debated with himself for a good hour before driving back to the cemetery and retrieving the lightly soaked letter. He had misgivings then, and he has misgivings now because handing the letter to _this_ recipient somehow felt wrong. 

 

Ward turns to leave his father to it, feeling intensely unsettled by the show of emotion. Before he knows it and before he can bring his arms up to defend himself, he's being whirled around to face the man and pulled into a tight embrace.

 

"What would I do without you kids?" Harold asks quietly, clutching onto Ward like a lifeline. If Ward was unsettled before, he is completely disturbed now.

 

He tries to pull away and is surprised when Dad lets him. He puts his hands firmly on the man's shoulders and holds him at arm's distance to get a look. Dad is destroyed. He has unabashed tear tracks on his face and his cheeks are splotchy. He's having a hard time. Something went wrong when he came back from the dead, but the man still loves them and he's still the dad who used to take them to the Hamptons and buy them cotton candy. He's still Dad. Ward's hands fall away.

 

"I'm so proud of you, Ward," Dad says, taking Ward's right hand into his own. He pats the hand and smiles. "You and Joy. You'll do amazing things at Rand."

 

Ward simply nods and half an hour later finds himself wandering back in the nightly chill toward Gramercy Park, his way lit by warm yellow streetlights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos, guys! I have to admit that I compulsively check to see the story's hits and kudos like ten times a day, and it really warms my heart when I see a new number for either of those! So good news, I finished my personal statement. Bad news, I'm not getting the edits back until after I have to send it out...so hopefully it's good enough as is. Pray for me or send good juju.


	6. June & July (Superbia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignorance is bliss, the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and other trite sayings.

**June**

 

It's been three months since Ward was 'mugged in an alley off of Union Square'. Ward's back pain has become an ever-looming companion. After failing physical therapy and non-opioid meds, he's been prescribed a stronger pain killer. He's also found a guy who will sell him oxycontin on the side; It's three times the retail price, but it's good to have something to kill the breakthrough pain when his other stuff wears off. He ends up taking an extra pill only a few times a week, but it's worth it. On this self-prescribed regimen, he's almost completely pain-free.

 

Ever the good brother, Ward stayed with Joy for two months- two whole months, during which she noticed when he took more pain meds than he should and relentlessly asked if he was really okay -until he finally hired a guy to do double duty as her driver and bodyguard. She still doesn't venture far from home or work and Ward is still forbidden from trying to visit her past sundown just in case. For his own protection, of course, which really is an insult.

 

At least the value of Rand shares has never been higher, and Ward is proud to say it's because of good management and FDA approval of their new antidepressant (Ward may have had a hand in greasing some palms so that the drug would be released this fiscal year, much to Harold's praise). But at least it's not at the expense of human lives.

 

Joy waltzes into his office as if she owns the place, a stack of manila folders in one arm. Even though she's supposed to be working in the legal department, the Rand building has been her second home since Ward started spending all of his time at the office a decade ago. So, she walks everywhere as if it's her domain because it basically is.

 

"So Ward, I was just going over some old contracts, and this one seemed kind of off," she says without preamble, pulling one of the thinner folders out for him to see. "The language is vague and I don't really understand it, especially since half of it's in Arabic and wasn't translated. You negotiated this, right? And brought the proposal to the board?"

 

_You did this._

 

Ward takes the folder and dumps it on the pile of papers sitting on the corner of his desk. Joy has been interrupting him at his desk for the past month with various _'vague'_ or _'incomplete'_ contracts that she was _'just going over'_. If he were paranoid, he'd think his sister was out to get him fired.

 

"Doesn't Chief Counsel have anything _better_ for you to do?" he asks, rubbing his neck and itching for something.

 

"You mean, why am I delegated to looking over old contracts instead of using my law degree to actually negotiate new ones?" she asks bitterly.

 

"Yeah. That," he drawls.

 

Joy plops down onto a chair and sighs. "They're treating me like a child," she says with a pout, though she would adamantly deny that she ever pouts. "And it doesn't help that there's some reporter who's been looking into our contracts and business dealings. Can you believe he even claims we were part of that Snowden NSA scandal? Anyway, legal has the perfect excuse for giving me scutwork to do.  No offense, Ward, but some of your contracts are shit."

 

Ward could really use a pill right about now. He massages his temples and tries to think of what Harold would do in this situation. Except does he really want to emulate Harold of all people? He knows what would happen. The troublemaker would mysteriously and conveniently disappear, and at the same time, a large sum of money would be allocated to the Human Resources Dispatch fund. And if Ward tried to argue against it, Harold would say: 'don’t you want be successful and respected and feared? Then do as I say.' But sometimes (maybe most of the time) Ward doesn't want to be any of those things, and he just wants to sit on the couch next to Joy watching a kid's movie like old times.

 

"You know I'm not dumb, Ward."

 

Ward is snapped out of his turbulent musings. He looks at her and isn't sure where that comment is coming from. "Never said you were?" he slowly says in a tone that sounds more like a question.

 

"Then why are you keeping all this from me? All these deals. I can handle it."

 

Ward's stomach sinks. It's not a matter of whether Joy could handle it, because he knows his sister is a strong woman. He just doesn't want Joy associating him with the things he's done. She is the last person he wants knowing about all the deals he's brokered and properties he's bought. _He_ barely even knows what he's done, and he's coming to realize that sometimes it's better that way.

 

He sleeps better at night because he's purchased this contentment with ignorance and oxycontin.

 

"You know what?" he makes a decision. "You're too good for the legal department." Joy needs to stop looking into these contracts. She can't know how low her brother has sunk. Therefore, a distraction is in order. "You're a Meachum, you should be working at the executive level anyway."

 

"You're willing to have a Co-CEO?" Joy asks playfully. Her eyes are sparkling but she looks tense. A co-CEO structure was not unheard of, but he would have to take significant flak from the board. Only a handful of Fortune 500 companies would even consider having two. But no other companies had the chance to have Joy Meachum as Co-CEO. She's smirking at him, challenging him to try something new and exciting.

 

Thoughts of contracts and business paraphernalia are at the furthest part of his mind. Joy actually _wants_ to prove herself at Rand. Far be it from him to stop her. He smiles at his little sister who seems to be growing up way too fast for his comfort and puts a hand on her shoulder. "I'd love to have you as my Co-CEO."

 

ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ.ൠ

 

**July**

 

The job of distracting the reporter interested in the Syrian fertilizer deal has fallen to someone else in the legal department. Someone who is too scared of Ward to tell him outright that his contracts are shit. It's probably for the best, because now it seems as if Ward has no idea his work is being scrutinized. He wishes he had a more news-worthy story for the reporter, because he'd rather deal with it the sketchy but legal way than…well, this way. Up against a wall, he has no other recourse. He needs to keep the matter quiet and keep it from both Harold and Joy. He doesn't want to bear their disappointment.

 

Reluctantly, he calls up the head of security. "Shannon? I have a freelance job for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sent in applications today. Juju + prayers, please! Also kudos and comments if you'll spare them.


	7. August (Invidia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the Ward to whom we were first introduced. This is a man who loves and hates judiciously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's been a while since reading the first chapter, you might find it helpful to pop over to Chapter 1, reread it, and then come back.

 

Ward doesn't inquire much about Harold's dealings. He understands it's better not to know. It's too hard to know. He asks perfunctory questions about why this, or why that when he gets irritated, but mostly he just buys what Harold tells him to buy and comes when Harold calls. Thankfully, it's been a few weeks since Harold has called. Which is also good, because he's been busy teaching Joy how to survive at the top of the company food chain which, more often than not, feels just like the bottom.

 

She's already had her share of naysayers and crotchety old men leering down her shirts. Ward put an end to that without Joy even noticing there was a problem to begin with. To be fair, she is too busy trying to prove herself that she has no time to worry about the perverts in the office. She is working hard, and she is working fast. Sure, she's had a few missteps and a few close calls that were caught only because Ward is looking over her shoulder with each decision she makes. But still, she is exceeding Ward's every expectation such that there are whispers that he's grooming her to take over for him. 

 

People are saying she's a great hands-on operator, and that he's the visionary. The board and the company see them as a dream team. He convinces himself it's a good thing people think she's so good, maybe even better than Ward. He tells himself it's a tempting move and maybe he should consider setting aside some money for a long vacation.

 

Everything is perfect. Joy's office is only a short walk away. He has his little silver pillbox sitting close to his heart. Harold hasn't called in almost three weeks. Everything is as it should be.

 

Ward opens his Rand email and sees an eerily familiar subject line: " _You did this_." He shudders. He moves his mouse to delete the email and its video attachment but has a moment of hesitation. Who is sending these emails anyway? Who knows enough about Rand operations to harass him with videos? He considers sending it to IT, but what if they watch the video and figure out what its contents mean? Ward has an idea, but he doesn't want to be certain. Frankly, he would rather be ignorant of both the email's content and sender...than be responsible for knowing both. So he deletes it and the video and continues with his day until Joy walks in with another collection of manila folders.

 

She stands at the entrance of his office instead of coming in as she usually would. "You know that reporter I mentioned to you?"

 

Ward has an idea, but denies knowing anything. "What reporter, Joy?"

 

"That guy who was looking into some of our overseas contracts a few months ago. Remember when I was looking through all the old contracts, especially the Agri-Lyze deal?"

 

Ward tries to compose himself. He hates even hearing the name of that company now. "Huh. I remember you mentioning it a couple months ago."

 

Joy is irritated with him, judging by frown and tapping foot. She's still lingering by the door, which tells him that she's not going to be lulled into complacency. "Well, the guy who took over my scutwork tells me that reporter's now disappeared and his _fellow_ reporter is asking if he had inquired into our business dealings. This can end up pretty bad if he decides to publish something. I'm supposed to be your co-CEO, but I don't have any idea what we're trying to defend or hide. Which is a problem if you want me to do my job."

 

Of course this had to happen. Of course there were loose ends. Ward isn't very good at being Harold.

 

He tries to affect nonchalance. "He's got nothing. He can't prove anything without seeing our contracts, which aren't gonna leave this building without a warrant." He pours himself a drink and reassures himself that the second reporter can't possibly have all the leads that the first one had. He must have nothing but suspicions. "What's he even trying to accuse us of?" he asks, pretending to be ignorant because he can't do anything else with Joy looking at him like that.

 

Joy finally enters his office and sits. It's her way of saying she'll work with him rather than accuse him. "At the least, just overcharging for fertilizer. At the worst…well, here."

 

She tosses him a newspaper, but he already knows what's on it as he catches the rolled up paper. He saw it this morning and heard it again on the radio. He knows that on the front-page of the Wall Street Journal is a colored picture of brown people wrapped in white sheets. They appear as though they're sleeping, but one look at the headline would dismiss that notion. So Ward decides not to look at the headline. He tries to avoid the news. All day, tries not to think of the two hundred corpses and counting. It's so much worse than the measly number of bodies last March that drove him to attack Harold.

 

But now Joy has brought this into his office and expects him to look at it. She expects him to be unfazed. He unfurls the newspaper and despite himself is able to look at the picture without breaking down. He clears his throat and taps the back of his hand on a column to the left of the picture. "He thinks we have something to do with the NSA?"

 

"Don't be obtuse, Ward," Joy says firmly. Okay, so she's not in the mood for jokes. If she knew about the scrubbing he had to do with the whole Security Agency thing, maybe she would consider it a funny comment.

 

Oh, but her scrutiny is too much. He pulls out his silver pill box and just plays with it in one hand. Annoyed, Ward plays up his scorn. "So this guy, with no evidence whatsoever, thinks we're supplying a foreign government with fucking sarin? This isn't the 1940s, we're still part of the damn Geneva Convention."

 

"It's the Geneva protocol from the 1920s, and it doesn't apply to civil wars," she says with a steely edge.

 

"Regardless," he says, standing up. He joins his sister by the chairs and perches on an armrest. "Rand is a good company," he tells her, though he's personally stopped trying to convince himself. "We would never _do_ something like that. Those _aren't_ the principles we were built on."

 

Joy nods slowly. "So you can promise that this reporter's suspicion is completely unfounded?"

 

Ward forces a chuckle. "Can't promise we didn't overcharge on fertilizer." Seeing her still unsettled, he takes her hand in his and squeezes. He wishes he had Joy's ignorance but supposes it's his job to preserve it. "I promise we didn't have anything to do with the gas attacks." Unbidden images of suffocating children and first responders unknowingly inhaling the invisible fumes flash in his mind. Dismissing them gets easier with practice, though another part of his psyche says that's not a good thing in the long run. "Joy, if we were involved, and I knew about it, I'd be the first one to the press. I'm not that much of a monster." He swallows down the bile in throat.

 

Joy doesn't look quite convinced, but she squeezes his hand back. "I'll get public relations to do something and we'll get a team together to discredit his name. He won't be able to publish if no papers will work with him." Joy has become quite a shark, and she's only been a CEO for two months.

 

Once she leaves and Ward has his office to himself, he puts his pillbox on the desk and considers the little silver container. The first time he was prescribed pain relievers, he didn't think much of them. His back pain was aggrieving him so much that he had little time to worry about addiction or the nation's opioid problem.

 

He pops one of the shorter-acting pills into his mouth. He's gotten so used to swallowing pills that he doesn't really need anything to wash it down. He considers taking a swig of bourbon, but he's not sunk quite that low. He feels the pill slide down his throat and waits for the drug to take effect. Soon enough, he feels the warmth and comfort that he used to only find at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

 

It feels good. He tells himself that it's not a problem, not a thing. He knows what it's like to not have control of his life, and this isn't that. And even though the newspaper and its disturbing image is still splayed out on his desk, he's never felt better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. I'd appreciate kudos and especially comments. How do you think the chapter titles contribute to the contents? Does Ward's development in this feel organic, or does it feel forced? What are your thoughts on Joy? Harold? Are there too many chapters, and maybe some of them were unnecessary to Ward's development or to the plot? What's your favorite color? Anyway, leave a comment if you are so moved. Otherwise, have a pleasant day!


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